


the long march

by merrymegtargaryen



Category: The Sunne in Splendour - Sharon Kay Penman, The White Queen (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 11:31:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9722360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrymegtargaryen/pseuds/merrymegtargaryen
Summary: "It has been a long march, Anne Neville, and I fear it will not be over for some time. But we must keep on marching, you and I. God knows our husbands cannot bear it alone.”





	

Anne woke before the sun rose, reached for her husband. But there was no one beside her; in Richard’s place were rumpled sheets, cold enough that she knew he had been up for a while. 

She sat up, blindly groped for her robe. Richard had been sleeping ill these last few nights, carried too heavily the weight of his brother’s sins. It was so typical of Edward, to make a damned fine mess of everything and let Richard clean it up. Even now, dead these two months, he was taking his final rest while Richard was growing gaunter by the hour.

She knew what Londoners were saying, knew that they thought he had invented the plight-troth to Eleanor Butler, that this was all a ploy to become king. She wished they could see him as she did, saw how little he slept and ate and smiled since his brother died. It was true that Richard had no love for the Woodvilles, and truer still that he feared what might befall the country if they crowned another boy, feared another Henry VI and Richard II--but he did not want to be king. And just as her husband did not want to be king, nor did Anne want to be queen.

She closed her robe, found her slippers by her bedside. To be twice wed was not unusual, but to twice be styled the future queen was something she doubted any other woman could say for herself. Now, at least, she was prepared. She thought back to the little girl who had meekly followed her father to France, remembered how young and how spineless she’d been when she married Edward of Lancaster. Her mother-in-law seemed in turns exasperated and amused by her, had mockingly called her “Edward’s little queen”. The evenings they spent together were more often than not Anne sitting in silent humiliation while Margaret heaped all kinds of epithets on her.

There had been one night, however, that Anne had largely forgotten until now. It was while they were on the march to Tewkesbury, one of the last nights Anne was to ever spend with Margaret of Anjou.

“You must grow a spine if you are to be queen,” she had said, her voice heavy with drink. “How can you stand at your husband’s side if you fall for every hardship life throws at you?”

“I have not fallen yet,” Anne had reminded her in that small, piping voice. 

Margaret laughed. “No, you have not. But this is only the beginning, Anne Neville.” She leaned forward, the cloying smell of wine filling Anne’s senses. “What do you think will happen when your other Yorkist cousins rise up against my husband--and yours? What will you do when you are driven out from your home, separated from your husband, with a child to look after?” She reached out to wind a lock of Anne’s hair around her finger. “You have been blessed in your marriage--my Edward is a strong man. I know you do not like him, and he is equally unimpressed with you, but he is sound of mind. You will never have to support him as I have supported my husband.” She yanked on Anne’s hair, sneered when the younger woman cried out. “I stood by Henry’s side when no one else would, not even his own Lord Protector. I gave him an heir, I fought for his crown--and now I fight for my son’s right to wear the crown, and for yours. It has been a long march, Anne Neville, and I fear it will not be over for some time. But we must keep on marching, you and I. God knows our husbands cannot bear it alone.”

Anne had attributed that little speech to the wine swimming in Margaret’s head, but as the years passed, she began to understand. She had always thought Richard was so strong. And he was, of course, but Anne didn’t know how he managed it, how he carried the burdens left by his brothers like Atlas carrying the world on his shoulders. He ate only when she brought him food, slept only when she forced him. She talked about their son and Middleham when she saw the shadows in his eyes, smiled so that he would frown less. She was exhausted from looking out for him, ached for one night of uninterrupted sleep, to reach out in her slumber and feel Richard sleeping beside her. 

But this was the march that Margaret warned her about, the long march that she must keep on marching. Richard could not bear it alone.

Anne found Richard at the solar window, just as she had known she would. She slipped beside him, rested a hand on his back. “Come back to bed, love.”

He didn’t move. It was too dark out to see anything, but Anne suspected what he saw wasn’t visible through their window. 

“Richard,” she pressed.

He heaved a sigh. “Of all the selfish, careless things Ned has ever done, this is the worst.”

“What is, my love?” 

“Dying.” He shifted. “He’s done many things in his life, but this...Jesus wept, Anne, how could he have left it all like this?”

“He was ever thoughtless, your brother,” she said quietly. “And he has always left you to clean up after him.” 

“This is one mess I don’t think I can clean up, Anne.” 

She stepped closer, laid a hand over his heart. “You can, and you will,” she said softly. “Edward named you Lord Protector, and your claim is stronger than his son’s. If you crown the boy, the Woodvilles will only sink their teeth deeper in the throne, will take everything until there’s nothing left. You know what you must do, Richard.”

“Yes,” he agreed softly, covering her hand with his. “But it is the doing it I fear.”

She slid her hand from his back to his cheek, stroked the stubble there. “My father used to say that without fear, bravery would be impossible.” She kissed his jaw. “Be brave, my love.”

“Oh, Anne.” Richard wrapped his arms around her, buried his face in her shoulder. “I am so glad I have you with me. I could not bear this alone.”

She stroked his thick black hair, that hair she had always loved so well. “I know,” she whispered. “I know.” 


End file.
